


King of Cups

by gaiuswrites



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peril, Rating May Change, Rating will most definitely change when we all get some sweet sweet d, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, lord help us, no y/n
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-24 10:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30071070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaiuswrites/pseuds/gaiuswrites
Summary: As a member of the RRM (Refugee Relief Movement), you have traveled the systems countless times over and seen your fair share of hardships-- but nothing could have prepared you for the day that disaster strikes, changing your life forever, intertwining your path with that of a certain Mandalorian bounty hunter.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, Mando/reader, The Mandalorian/You
Kudos: 6





	1. The Tower

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, welcome. :) First time user, long time guest commenter here on Ao3. Sooo here goes nothin'. Just some general notes about King of Cups: first of all, just as a warning, she's a slow burn. Oops. Second, the first couple of chapters will definitely be predominantly Reader focused, but I promise Mando will be featured more and more as we go along. And last but not least, this is a love story. At it's heart and in it's bones. It is about love and loss. This is a story about healing. Enjoy, friends. <3

Lothal was a planet all too familiar with occupation.

You remember seeing a quote somewhere that read _‘Look no further than Lothal if you want to see what happens when the Empire takes control of an entire world’_ ; and although the Imperial chokehold had loosened when the Empire fell, the planet, even all these years later, still found itself gasping for breath. 

Off world migration from the Core Worlds had been popularized since the expansion of the Imperial government bureaucracy, which brought booming business opportunities for the fortunate few, but as the rich became richer, the poor grew poorer. The Lothalites were forced out of their homes, off their own lands—refugees on their own planet; forced to resettle and relocate with nothing but the clothes on their back and the possessions they could cram into their pockets. The only heirlooms passed on from generation to generation were that of poverty, tall tales, and the greatest of ancestral traumas: disillusionment. The truly desperate turned to crime, and what couldn’t be solved by back-dealings and blaster fire was managed with fear mongering and the bitter flair of xenophobia. There was always a species to blame, and it was always the one who seemed to be doing better off, no matter how slight the margin. 

Greed. Fear. Despair. These are the currencies in which the galaxy trades. 

And so it was then, and continued to be, cycle after cycle. History, always finding clever ways to repeat itself.

On bad days, pollution still loomed heavy over the atmosphere—remnants of the fires from the Imperial occupation still clinging on to Lothal’s weary bones. She had been stripped during that time; gutted and strung up by her feet to dangle from the Empire’s meat hook, exsanguinated slowly, drop by drop, until she had nothing left to give. Her resources and minerals and ore and water and seed, robbed. Pillaged.

She’s free from it now, but the scars remain. The planet remembers. Her people do not forget. Like muscle memory, they all ungulate to this synthesized rhythm they can’t seem to shake, day in and day out, wandering. Forever unsettled. The planet had always had a diverse population and had become something of a safe haven for other abandoned people fleeing their home worlds, determined to find somewhere, _anywhere_ for them to survive. Lothal provided that for them. It wasn’t rich or bountiful by any stretch, but it was simple and safe—safe in the way hidden things in plain sight are. One could blend into the crowd of many, unique faces, of all races and backgrounds; you could be anonymous, if you wanted. You could be free.

That’s how you’ve found yourself here in Jortho. You had been with the Refugee Relief Movement for the better part of what felt like forever- practically a _veteran_ with the organization, by now- and they had transferred you to this planet just six weeks ago. You were out on rotation; the RRM sends someone new twice a cycle for the span of a month or two to varying locations to supply rations, aid with the influx of refugees, organize resettlement lodgings, and generally be of assistance when and where you could. However, your tenure on this temperate planet was coming to a close, and soon you’d be flying back to the headquarters on Coruscant before being bounced to another post somewhere out among the stars. 

You love your job. You know it’s unpopular to say, but you do. It’s fulfilling and impactful and _indescribably_ special. The individuals you meet, the stories you hear, they’re invaluable— priceless and precious, like handmade trinkets crafted by the fingers of a child; you press them all to your heart, holding them there. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t get to you— the weight of it; the plights of all of these people, all of these lives, burdening your conscience. Even so, on most nights you manage to sleep easy, tucked away aboard the transport freighter you flew in on with the batch of settlers newly assimilated into town knowing _Maker_ , at least you were doing something— _anything_ — everything you could.

And really, to call Jortho a _town_ would be an insult to all towns everywhere—but ‘town’ has a certain charm to it that ‘refugee camp’ simply did not, and it gave the people hope. Pride, even. That they belonged somewhere.

You suppose that’s all anyone wants. To belong. 

A feather soft gust of wind tickles the golden blades of prairie grass as the sun, bleary and tired, starts dipping from the sky. The crickbeets begin their song early, trilling, sensing Lothal’s moons still coyly tucked away, hiding somewhere along the horizon. A smile adorns your face, private and serene, as you bring a bowl of broth up to your lips, humming when the warm liquid meets your tongue. You sigh, contented, taking in the sights before you; how the dusk blurs the aromatic air, as if making it opaque, the shuttles docked across the way from you casting long purple shadows onto the flat plains, the snowcapped mountains in the distance bordering the cant of the planet’s surface, nestling Jortho in a shallow valley. You feel calm, at peace, and take another sip. An easy moment passes, gentle and unremarkable— but it’s the last one you get before silence stalks up from behind you. You don’t notice it at first, like any patient predator, it goes undetected: the white noise, the nothingness— until finally, you do and then suddenly it’s _everywhere_. On top of you. Smothering you. Goosebumps stipple your skin and you bristle.

The insects have stopped chirping. The breeze has stilled. The air hangs dead. 

And then-

 _Chaos_.

You’re hit with a blast of crushing heat, the sheer power of it picking you up off your feet and onto your side, sending your body careening into a nearby structure. Your shoulder takes most of the blow, but your neck still snaps backwards unnaturally, the back of your head colliding with the stone wall behind you with a dull _thwack_. You let out a groaned cry at the impact, the wind knocked out of your lungs as you crumple to the ground. For an instant, your vision goes white, stars popping and fusing out in front of your pupils, and it’s like you can feel everything and nothing all at once, hollow but overwhelmed, and all you want to do is close your eyes and drift asleep— _Maker_ that would feel like a luxury, just right here on the dirt. And you almost do, you almost let yourself slip under and sink until you hear a piercing scream from somewhere close. 

Immediately your eyes shoot open, desperately blinking away the blurriness that threatens to over take them, and you try pushing yourself up by the heels of your scraped hands, failing once, _twice_ , before finding your footing. You’re shaky at first, uncoordinated and dizzy, as if redownloading bipedalism, before the sweet drug of adrenaline starts to course through your veins and finally, _finally_ , you take in your surroundings. The ships that once stood across the field are gone, obliterated, and in their place only metal ribcages remain—empty carcasses like dead birds splayed on their backsides, imploded from the inside out, their bits strewn all around you. 

Your breathing comes hard and heavy, fighting down panic, and cloudy eyes search through the thick black smoke billowing up in stacks, trying to pin point the source of the scream you’d heard just moments ago. You cough a strained wheeze, sputtering against the charred air, and wade your way through the debris— it’s only then that you realize the magnitude of the explosion. It’s not just the landing bay, it’s half the _kriffing_ village. The buildings that neighbored the airfield had been decimated, burning roofs and crumbling fixtures, homes collapsing onto themselves, scorch marks and shrapnel branding the outsides of the shanties left standing.

It looks like a battlefield. You’ve seen holovids of this; it was a part of your training—what war can look like, how it can ruin a people… But you’ve never had to stand in the middle of it, head on. 

Your heart drums against your chest as you break into a hobbling run, desperately scanning the area for any signs of life, up and down, left and right, straining against the waning daylight. It’s then that you hear your name, urgent and frantic, and you whip your head in it’s direction and your knees nearly buckle in relief. You immediately recognize your friend Hareem, brandishing her arms at you, waving you over to her. 

“Thank the Maker, you’re alright!” the Balosar cries out, trembling hands finding purchase on your shoulders, bracing you. You don’t know if its for your benefit or her own, but either way you’re grateful for the grounding pressure; for the first time since the initial blast, you feel solid, like you won’t just float away, atomized and weightless. Worried, you scan her over. A sliver of fresh scarlet blooms from her scalp, a small line trickling down past her temple, but she otherwise looks relatively unharmed. You grasp onto her wrist, squeezing firmly.

“What the _hell_ happened?” You ask, voice low and pitched, wide fearful eyes drilling into her.

“T-There was a man-” And she shakes her head, mouth clamping shut, deep wrinkles framing her face. 

“Hareem,” you reassure, giving her another squeeze. _I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere._ She tries again with a steadying inhale, “I-I saw him. There was a man. He had a device with him, and he set charges, and Maker I don’t know— I _don’t know_ — it went off a-and he ran towards the center of town!” The Balosar is in hysterics now, tears spilling down her dirty cheeks, and it takes your brain a moment to catch up, to wrap your mind around the words she’s stuttering out. 

A man. 

Device. 

Charges.

A bomb. This wasn’t an accident; this was an _attack_ —and he’s still _kriffing_ here. You cup her cheeks, thumbs rubbing against the pale skin, smearing away the blood that’s nearly dripped to her chin. Your friend’s gaze is flighty, everywhere and nowhere, and you try giving her a smile, but you’re not quite sure you manage it. “Hareem? Hareem. Hey, shh, you’re okay. You're alright…” You peel your eyes off her to glance around hurriedly. 

“We need to find cover.”

* * *

You’re holed up in one of the few remaining homes on this side of the encampment, crowded into the small space with three other survivors. All four of you, packed in and silent and petrified. Unsure of any further threat, you stay completely still. Helpless. Laying here, idle, for whatever awaits you behind that feeble, wooden door. You feel like prey for the wicked, just passing the time.

Minutes inch along like this—or maybe its hours; time moves so unnaturaly different when you’re attempting to become invisible—and eventually, you almost begin to relax. Almost. But a new sound breaks the din, hard to recognize at first, indistinct from all the commotion outside their hut, but it's there. You hear it. You all do. The youngest of you, a teenaged Devaronian, grips onto the hem of your shirt, knuckles creasing with anticipation. You tense, spine going rigid. _Footsteps_. They’re slow, guarded, but they’re getting closer. You bring an arm up, for all the good it’ll do, creating a human shield in front of the boy at your side. _Closer_. Someone behind you muffles a whimper. _Closer_. A Bardottan you hadn’t even met until today let’s out the faint whisper of a prayer, lips barely ghosting over the phrases. _Closer_ \- 

and then, nothing.

He's here. You can sense him, see his shadow sweep across the gaps in the entryway. You all hold your breath, as if the air is being syphoned out of the space… With a crash, the door is flung open, nearly breaking off it’s hinges as it slams into the inside of the house, shuttering the rickety walls with a jarring bang. 

You don’t know who looks more astonished: you four, or the Mandalorian before you, dripping head to toe in silver plated armor, and pointing a blaster directly at your head.

“Where is he?” he asks, hard edged and modulated, and it’s more of a demand than a question—but after a beat, he lowers his weapon all the same, holstering it at his side. You gape at him, guppying wordlessly. He repeats himself, “Volcur X’elo. The bomber. **Where**?”

He hasn’t moved an inch out of the doorframe but he’s still managing to loom over you, completely filling up the archway, shoulders set and impossibly intimidating. You gulp, finally finding your voice. “In town, i-in the center of town…” Kriff, you had no idea if that intel was good or not, but it’s all you think to say. Seeming satisfied with your answer he turns on his booted heel, cape whipping behind him, leaving just as soon as he arrived. The dust barely has time to settle as the door teeter’s on its hinge, its rusty squeaks filling the void in the Mandalorian’s wake.

“ _Fuck_ ,” you hiss, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, doubling forward, propping your palms up on your knees.

* * *

After deliberating it with your group, you all come to the agreement of braving it outside. Better to be out under the open sky than die under a concaving apartment, clambering over each other to get to the exit. After all this, at least your dignity was still partially in tact— normally, you reckon you’d chuckle dryly at that. But you don’t. Can’t. 

You lead the pack through the mazelike streets. The sights that once seemed so familiar after weeks of living here have become like strangers to you, and you sleepwalk through Jortho, snaking down paths marred by rubble and fallen wreckage— you haven’t seen any bodies, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe you’re just too scared to notice them. Maybe they’re there, hovering just outside of your peripherals, haunting the corners of your vision… 

You keep your head fixed forward, jaw clenched.

Your feet move on their own like this, only vaguely aware that the red-skinned boy still hadn’t let go of your tunic. You forge on. Have to. You have to. Your only purpose on this _kriffing_ planet was to help these people, to bring them aid, and if that means simply planting one foot in front of the other, then so be it. You take side alleys, double backing here and there, ducking under canopies, looping around yourself, only stopping when you catch a glimpse of beskar, the sliver of orange setting sun glinting off the surface of his helmet.

And he’s not alone.

You freeze suddenly, as do the rest, and the Devaronian bumps into you, stumbling under his lanky legs. Some paces in front of you, the bounty hunter has the other man, this _Volcur X’elo_ , by a punishing grip on his shoulders, shoving him forcefully out in front of him; his wrists are bound and he’s fitful without the stability of his arms, his feet staccatoed and flailing wildly beneath him as the Mandalorian marches him forward. 

The wind shifts, and on it you can hear the bomber rant madly, only catching snippets of the vile nonsense that spews from him.

“- like _swine_ , they are a _plague_ to the system! And they must be purged from this planet, and the next, and the next— every last filthy one!” You spare a glance to Hareem, to find her watching the scene in hypnotized horror, but your eyes snap back at the sound of something maniacal, drawing your attention. It’s laughter. The zealot begins to laugh a twisted, mocking cry that makes you want to vomit. “You might have me in binders _Mandalorian_ , but you’re too late. You’re too late. This isn’t over!” He’s practically _giggling_ , gleeful and demented. Disturbed. “You’ve only found one-”

Your blood runs cold. 

Only one? _Oneoneoneone_ , one what-

The realization hits you with a punch to your gut. He’s only detonated _one_ of his bombs. Somewhere, nearby, there must be another.

Without another word, the Mandalorian whips the man around, pulling him sharply by his collar to collide with his breastplate, completely dwarfing him with his beskar frame. “Where is it, X’elo?” Nothing. Only laughter. High pitched, terrible roars. He tries again, patience ebbing. “The bomb. **Now**.” X’elo’s head tilts back and he howls another crowing shriek, keeping private his own sick joke, as if clutching a secret to his chest with slimy hands. 

The bounty hunter had heard enough. With nothing more to gain from him, he rears his blaster and with a quick strike, pistol whips the terrorist with it. A single crack rings out as the butt of it meets his temple. The body drops. Volcur X’elo crumples, dust pillowing out around him, unconscious, blood streaming from where he was struck. You hear the Bardottan behind you stifle a cry with her fist. 

And like sand slipping through an hourglass, Lothal’s sun disappears completely, stealing away the last of it’s light as it furls into itself, shrinking out of sight. The dark ushers a new wave of dread, creeping over Jortho like a miasma, poisoning the very air. They were all running out of time.

The Mandalorian wheels around, searching for his heading in the labyrinth of the town. Others have gathered now, poking their heads around corners, stealing glimpses through windows. He turns, his head on a swivel. “Where is your power generator?” he demands, addressing the small crowd, but you’re all too stunned to speak. “ _Anybody_. Generator. Now.” There’s something new in his voice, something muddled, and it takes you a moment to interpret it.

It’s desperation, you realize, tinny and deep through his vocoder.

 _Fuck._ With a surge of adrenaline you move forward, furthering yourself from your group and you swallow, calling out to him. “I-Its this way.” Upon hearing your voice, he spins around, his visor latching on to you, and with a nod you both set out. 

“Watch him,” the Mandalorian growls past his shoulder, stepping over the bounty’s limp body.

* * *

You’re still not really sure how he knew where it’d be, you wonder to yourself, gravel crunching under foot as you both trudge on, an eery quiet settling over them. You’d say it was a lucky hunch, but judging by the way the Mandalorian carries himself, you doubt luck had much to do with it. 

You had led him to the power generator hub on the other side of the sad excuse for a city, traveling in tense silence, and when you came upon that tall, bulky machine he sprang into action, circling it until he found what he was looking for. The bomb. You stood back, rooted there, and after some grunting and rewiring— or maybe he just hacked at it with a vibroblade, you had no idea; his wide frame engulfed his work and you couldn’t tell what he was up to, all you knew was that his methods proved successful— the man managed to disarm the second device. You had thought you noticed his shoulders release, slumping with relief, after the red flashing lights on the rudimentary interface flickered and then went dark.

And so here you are. The two of you, bathed in the light of Lothal’s twin moons, their bellies hanging full in the blue-black night, illuminating the trail of blood staining the dirt beneath your boots as the Mandalorian roughly drags the body by his ankle behind him— through the exploded rubble, through the fragmented lives of the people around you, already displaced and estranged. _They’ll all have to move_ , you think, _pack up their lives, or what little is left of them, and relocate. Again_. The thought sinks like a stone, sobering you. 

Even with the weight of a fully grown man to lug, the bounty hunter is still a few long strides in front of you and your eyes are trained on the unconscious form, taking in the way his mouth lolls open like an animal, his hair matted with thick blood, eyes rolled back into his head. You’re talking out loud before you even realize it.

“How sick do you have to be,” you mumble, transfixed. Your voice, it’s not angry; no, shock has effectively robbed you of that— it’s not anger, but bewilderment. Quivering, broken bewilderment. “H-How hoodwinked and warped you’d have to be, how disturbed… For you to think like that. To do all… all this…” 

“ ** _Hey_** ,” his gruff voice shakes you from your trance, and you blink up at him, tearing your eyes off the body. “ _Focus_.” he urges, and you can only nod dumbly back at him, suddenly feeling a ripple of nausea slither through you. The ramp to his ship is lowering as they come upon it and you plant yourself at the base, feet seeming to stop on their own accord. Frankly you’re not really sure why you’ve even followed him this far in the first place— always a step behind him as he hauled his bounty all the way through the vestiges of Jortho, across the arid prairie to where he first touched down. Maybe it’s because you feel untethered, unmoored, and all of his steeled surety is like a lighthouse, a beacon, guiding you away from the rocks. 

He heaves X’elo up the ramp and you’re left standing there, staring unseeingly into the durasteel, becoming more and more aware of the ringing in your ears. The longer time passes, the more it’s as if you’re underwater, the background blurring into the foreground, sound gargled and far away. A high pitched buzz pinches your ear drums, and it takes you a moment to realize the Mandalorian is calling out to you, trying to get your attention. “— _**Dala**_.” Does he sound annoyed? _Kriff_ , you think he might… If you had your wits about you, you might be able to recognize it. But as it stands, you don’t. You’re not here, not all of you. You’re splintered. Suspended.

“Hmm? Sorry, what...?” Your mouth is as dry as Jakku— parched desert tongue darting across your cracked lip, tasting soot and ash and something metallic. Brow furrowed, you touch a shaky finger to the flesh and when you pull it back, crimson red dots your skin. 

_Oh_ , you think. Numb. _Huh_. 

Your eyes skitter back up to the Mandalorian towering over you at the apex of the incline, and his stance is broad and his fists are clenched. You’re almost positive he’s glaring down at you through his visor, and you don’t even know the man, can’t even see his _damn face_ , but you can tell he’s peeved— _Maker_ , just _how long_ had he been speaking? How long had you been ignoring him?

A scratched noise comes through his helmet’s vocoder and his next words are clipped, punctuated. “I _said_ , do you have a _way off_ this _skug hole?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gaius-frakking-baltar.tumblr.com


	2. Five of Pentacles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still reeling from the attack on Jortho, you begin your journey to scower the systems for galactic aid. The Mandalorian takes you aboard his ship temporarily, agreeing to shuttle you to your next destination. You both figure your tenure on the Razor Crest will be short lived... But you've been wrong before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (warnings: death (mentioning), vomiting, descriptions of blood/injury)
> 
> The last paragraph that is notated with two lines is in Din's POV. He will begin to crop up now and again, and sometimes, they will be out of order/out of the timeline, and will use different tenses for his perspective (for example, in this instance, we're getting a glimpse into his mind quasi in the future?). Hope it's not too confusing. Enjoy :)

You have to think about it. Genuinely.

It takes longer than you’d like to admit, with the Mandalorian looking down at you expectantly, a gloved hand slotted against his belt. Postured and waiting.

_‘Do you have a way off this skug hole?’_

You open your mouth, but no words come out. It snaps closed. You swallow, but the action provides no relief. Your tongue feels too big for the small space it’s trapped in; too swollen, too dust logged— like you could choke on it, if you really tried. Finally, a single syllable frees itself, the weight of it plummeting through your ribs, ricocheting off the bones until it lands in your stomach with a dull, sinking splash.

“No.”

He doesn’t move.

“Do you need to get anything?”

You shake your head, small at first, phantom movements, before stringing together a sentence. “N-No. It’s all gone. Everything I had- it all went up on the shuttle-“

Oh gods, the _shuttles_.

Your heart seizes, a cold hand like a vice, gripping the bloody organ. You feel green; sickly chartreuse slithering it’s way up your esophagus, poisoning your soft palate. There were pilots on board when the ships blew. Two on each one. That’s four— four _people_. You knew their names. Knew their home planets. Knew about their families. One had a kid. _Fuck_. That’s four dead, and you didn’t even think of them— Maker, how could you not have _thought about them_?— No, fuck, fuck _fuck_ -

It didn’t before but it’s hitting you now, stabbing you right between the eyes, the image of their bodies disintegrating in the blast wave, charring up like coal and carbon. You breathed them in, you realize. Their corpses coat your lungs.

The thought is all it takes.

Your feet move on instinct, scrambling to the side of his gunship where you vomit, bracing yourself against the riveted siding as you hack and sputter, wretching bile and what little broth you’d had for supper to splatter onto the cracked earth. Mercifully you’re hidden enough around the corner that you don’t think the bounty hunter sees, and if he does, he has the curtesy not to say anything.

_What a gentleman_ , you think dryly, wiping your mouth with your sleeve.

You pant, body beyond spent, chest heaving as you press your scratched palm into the durasteel, the cool metal soothing it’s sting. Moments stretch like this— you doubled over, catching your breath— before you stumble back into view, graceless and encumbered, as if you didn’t just casually throw up down the front of yourself. You stand below him at the bottom of the ramp. He’s still there, a fixed point. Steel boots welded into the steel ramp.

“Uhm, are you-“

You cough, and it’s an ugly, hoarse sound; your throat burns, roughened and raw around the edges, and your nerves are too strung out for polite colloquialisms. You don’t have the energy to play coy and tip toe around the question. You’re fucking tired.

You try again.

“Are you offering me a ride?”

And now it’s his turn to hesitate, almost like he didn’t fully think the proposition through— as if it’s all just dawning on him now.

The Mandalorian didn’t strike you as someone who familiarized himself with answering to anyone (or picking up hitchhikers, for that matter), even if the offer was his to begin with... That was what he was doing, wasn’t it? Those words in that order? He meant to give you transport off planet? He wasn’t just… making conversation? Did Mandalorians even _do_ that? Maker, if you’ve read this whole situation wrong, no small thanks to a laser-brain full of mush, you reckon you’d die from embarrassment on the spot where you stood, splotched with soot and puke and blood.

You think he’s going to tell you to shove off— you see his hand balling into a fist at his side— and close the ramp right then and there. Be rid of you. Sluffed, like a flea from a dog.

But he doesn’t. He surprises you both.

“Yes.”

Oh. _Oh_. Kriff, okay. Think think think-

Your mind reels and you’re rambling now, words ending and beginning in the same breath— steamrolling over yourself.

“Okay, I-I need to go back in to town, just for a—I can't let them think I’m just leaving them like this... Is that okay? I’m sorry, I won’t take long, I promise, I just— they need to know I’m getting help. Is that- uhm, can you wait? Can you wait for me?”

There’s another unreadable pause that makes you want to bury your head in the cold, fallow soil.

The man is looking at you like you’ve grown another kriffing leg, but eventually he grumbles out a noise that _sounds_ like an affirmative, turning on his heel, and disappears into the belly of the ship— leaving you there alone.

Alone.

Pin pricks needle at the nape of your neck and the hair down your arm stands on end.

Alone.

You’re alone for the first time since the attack and suddenly you feel half your size and shrinking smaller still, like atoms collapsing and folding in on themselves until they dematerialize completely—and you along with them. You tell yourself to breath. To fight the bubbles of panic as they burst and pop, dimpling you from the inside out. Breath. _Focus_ , he said. _Focus_.

You shift your weight from foot to foot, gnawing at the inside of your cheek.

The Mandalorian never reemerges.

Well… you guess that was your cue.

* * *

Staggering back into Jortho is like sleepwalking through a nightmare you can't wake up from.

The smoke from the bombing has completely engulfed the lower atmosphere, doming the town in a thick canopy; the sky is blackened, starless, and the moons hover noncommittally like mere suggestions in the dark canvas.

Half the town had been decimated to rubble, and the other half was covered in the shockwave of it’s explosion— caked in grime, windows knocked out, doors splintered open. You almost expected the pieces to have reversed themselves back up, like you’ve seen in holovid special effects—homes rebuilding, fires dousing themselves, air purifying itself from the smog… but they don’t. They remain in shambles.

Time has granted you the unforgiving gift of clarity, and it’s one you’d rather not have been given. You don’t want to see the aftermath without the saccharine filter of shock to cushion you. The town is just as you left it, but somehow worse— worse because you can hear the crying, now. The wailing. You didn’t before with the blood pumping in your ears, deafening you, but you do now. The woeful noises that reverberate over the crackling embers still smoldering, the muffled sobs being choked down behind fractured walls.

Tripping over stray debris, you find Hareem close to where you’d left her, her fuse short hair grey with ash. The blood you smeared from her cheek still clouds her skin there, staining it as it does your fingers that wiped it. She wobbles to her feet and meets you in the middle of the road.

Neither of you speak, not at first. You hold onto her shoulders, and like a pillar of salt, you quake.

You try explaining to her that the communication’s system on your transport freighter had been blown up alongside the town, that you’ve accepted a ride from the bounty hunter and that you’re getting off world to contact the RRM headquarters, that you’d stay if you could but you _can’t_ and you need to call for assistance, for help. You try to tell her that you’d do anything— travel through dimensions, if you could, to undo all of this chaos— if the laws of time allowed it.

You want to go back and pretend today never happened. To unlearn the tremor in your hands as they grip her frame. To unlearn all of this. To unknow. But,

you can’t.

All you can do is move forward. Do the next right thing. Take the next right step.

You’ve explained yourself in circles but it still doesn’t feel like enough. The words feel shallow, like slapping some bacta on a severed limb, and guilt rips through you— your voice torn with it.

“But how can I leave now?” you ask helplessly, eyes skittering around you. “After all- all of _this_?”

Hareem finds your hands, her spindled fingers encasing your own. A crease engraves her forehead, little lines clustering around her eyes. “You’ve done enough, hm? You go now. Go with that Mandalorian. You can’t shoulder this alone.”

“Har-“

She doesn’t let you say it. The older woman soothes a thumb into the web between your knuckles.

“Make contact. Comm for aid. It will come, but it won’t if you stay here.”

Your shoulders release with a defeated sigh. You know the Balosar’s right— you’re the one who’s told her as much. That’s RRM protocol. In case of emergency, you were to comm in and reconvene with the closest branch to your system to send additional supplies and volunteers to the camp. You know this better than anyone here, and yet this woman, this _refugee_ , was the one aping your mission back to you.

She’s firm. Kind. “ _You’re just one person_.”

Briefly, you wonder if she’s a parent. You think a child would be lucky to have her as their mother— all of that somber strength. You think you would have been lucky, too.

Maybe things would be different—maybe you’d be different.

You gather yourself, piece by piece, and give her knobby hand a squeeze. You bore into her, determined and unwavering. You need her to understand. “I’m not abandoning you—any of you. I need you to know that, okay? I’m not leaving you alone in this.”

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I know, my friend,” Hareem says plainly, a sad sort of resolve quieting her tone. She has no fight left, nothing left to give— as empty as her pockets, lint lined and turned out. Barren. “I know.”

* * *

You weave your way back to the ship, feet padding across the arid landscape. You don’t blink, not even once, eyes crusted open and gaping. You barely remember the trek but somehow you’ve managed it, treading up the ramp, the thuds sounding hollow and foreign to your ear.

“I’m not a taxi service.”

You nearly jump out of your skin.

“ _Maker almighty_ ,” you gasp, hand coming up to clutch your canary heart, beating fast and frantic. He’s just standing there, waiting, the dimmed lights of the hull glinting off his beskar. It’d only been a few hours, but you had already somehow forgotten how kriffing _imposing_ he was, how ominous. A vacuum in space.

“O-Okay,” you stutter, a twitch in your brow.

“I’ll get you as far as you need to go, but on my terms. I’m not making a special trip— can’t promise you when.”

You nod. You’re not sure what to say. Lamed, all you can do is repeat yourself.

“… Okay.”

“What sector?”

“Bajic,” you start, fiddling with a loose thread poking from your sleeve. “We- uhm, the RRM, we have a branch there, but then—” your throat bobs as you swallow your next words, and he gives you an exacting look, tilting his helm subtly. There was no getting around it.

You’re pinned.

“Coruscant. I’ll need to get to Coruscant,” you finish quietly.

Did you just hear him _**‘tsk’**_ under that metal bucket?

“It’ll take a while to get to the Core. Longer than you’d like.”

And here you go, babbling again before you can stop yourself, throwing up defenses, excuses— back pedaling. You’re earnest, and it’s dripping from you, practically splattering all over the deck floor. “Listen, if this is too much, I get it. You don’t owe me anything. Really— you don’t have to take me anywhere you don’t want. I-I, honestly, I’m just grateful you even considered it.”

Silence. An endless sea of silence.

No current, no breeze. It feels like you’re stranded in dead water, drowning in it. _Again_ , you hang there on bated breath, just waiting for the man to chuck you from his ship. Not worth the effort, not worth the fuel...

And _again_ , he surprises you.

He tips his chin, gesturing to the side. “Fresher’s that way. We’ll be up in five.”

You exhale, visibly relieved, and mumble a _thank you_ before shuffling off in the direction he motioned towards. You get one foot through the door before you hear him.

“Dala,”

Your attention snaps to the Mandalorian. There’s that word again—you think he’s called you that before—but there’s something different in his voice now, a lilt you’d not yet heard from him. What _is_ that? Nerves?

“There is… one more thing.”

You cock your head just as a gargled coo comes from somewhere behind him.

* * *

You look like bantha shit.

Which, considering the events of your evening, should probably go without saying— and yet, the woman staring back at you in the small refresher mirror still manages to startle you.

You’re covered in dirt and ash and contusions you hadn’t had the luxury to notice before. With the adrenaline retreated from your veins, you finally feel the full scope of your injuries and _Maker_ do they _hurt_. Your tunic is torn at the collar and the fabric is discolored, pants and boots scuffed and cindered. Your bottom lip is swollen, a split running down the side of it, the seam of which is cracked with dry blood. Your palms are scratched— knuckles, too. There are narrow licks from shrapnel bites nicking your forearm. Twisting your body, you discover a dark bruise already blooming on your shoulder from the initial impact of the blast. You’re stiff and achy all over, and you can practically hear your bones creak and groan in complaint with each strained movement.

You turn on the faucet and begin to bend forward before you wince, a sharp pain gripping your skull. Ginger fingers come up to touch the back of your head, patting around tentatively until you find a raised bump and something viscous wetting the strands of your hair. You pull your hand back, inspecting it— more blood, glistening black under the low light.

Your eyes flit back up to your reflection.

You should be scared at this point, you guess. Worried, at the very least, by all of this—by the gore of it, the cuts and marks. But it’s your eyes that frighten you most— they’re hard. Devoid. You don’t recognize them. You’re a stranger.

You blink. She blinks back.

Rust red water eddies in the basin of the sink as you scrub yourself clean. You let out a hiss as the cold stream hits your skin. You count your breaths.

* * *

Being anywhere on board his ship without the Mandalorian feels wrong. Unnatural. Like you’re a tourist, out of place.

Unsure of where else to go, you find yourself in the cockpit with the bounty hunter, sitting in the seat beside him. Glancing over the knobs and dials and pulsing displays, your focus drifts in and out, posture slumping, lids growing heavy, darkening around the edges of your vision, blurring—

“Try to stay awake.”

With a sharp inhale, your eyes snap open, blinking wildly, and you scoot your hips up higher into the seat. You shoot the back of his helmet an inquisitive look you’re not sure he sees, but he responds to it all the same.

“Could have a concussion.”

“Didn’t know you were a doctor,” you reply, tone low and rolling. Maker above, _apparently_ the final stage of shock was sarcasm. The fact that you thought it wise to damn near _sass_ a Mandalorian on his own ship after he saved your kriffing life...

Stars, maybe it really _was_ a concussion. Brain damage. Had to be.

He doesn’t acknowledge the quip, which you can’t readily blame him for. A quiet beat, red buttons flickering against the dark of the cockpit, and then—

“There’s bacta in the medpack. Might not be much left.”

You’re wide awake now.

Your rebuttal is immediate, bristled even, words escaping before you have a chance to even consider his suggestion. “No— no, thank you, but I’m not taking the last of your supplies. I’ll be fine, you’re- you’re doing enough for me already.” He graces you with another of his grunts, a hush following closely behind it.

Your gaze wanders—it wanders onto him, and you watch him.

Watch as the stars dance across his armor, incandescent and shimmering. Hypnotic, even. Something you hadn’t noticed before catches your eye, and you have to crane your neck to get a good look at it. It’s hard to make out, but you think there’s a symbol on the pauldron adorning his shoulder. You can’t imagine it’s completely cosmetic, seeing as the hem of his cape is frayed and worn (and the fact that being a lethal hunter didn’t really scream ‘needless decoration’), but maybe, if you work up the courage somewhere between here and Coruscant, you’ll ask him about it.

His posture is carved out of stone and he sits like a statue, spine rigid under all that beskar. Fleetingly, you wonder if it’s heavy, if it’s uncomfortable—to carry it with him wherever he goes. But you suppose he’s grown accustom to the weight, wearing it like a second skin.

He’s broad too, you note. Of course he is, you recognized that straight off, but inside the confines of the ship, without the towering Lothal sky as his backdrop, it truly strikes you just how _large_ the Mandalorian is. He engulfs the space around him. Devours it.

You stay like this, entranced, studying the man properly for the first time, allowing the muscles behind your tired eyes to relax on him— until his visor notches up quickly and meets your line of sight in the mirrored pane of the window, catching you in the act.

**_Kriff_**.

You avert your eyes, an embarrassed warmth crawling up your neck, suddenly finding a particular panel soldered to the wall incredibly interesting— looking anywhere else but at the faceless stranger you’re saddled with.

The kid gurgles, interrupting the awkwardness, and you’ve never been more grateful for a three pronged toddler in your life.

He’s sitting in the copilot’s seat opposite you, as if the tiny thing is _navigating_ for the Mandalorian, and he’s completely dwarfed by the massive chair. Everything about him juxtaposes the other man. He’s all brown robes and wispy peach fuzz, and he looks almost _comically_ out of place against the interior of the gunship. He’s playing with a shiny metal ball in his lap, and with one small arm, he extends it to you like a gift.

Out of the two of them, the child was a one man welcoming party.

“Is this for me?”

He gives a soft _patuu_ , and your heart nearly bursts. You take it from him gently, and the little guy coos through a babbling grin, cheeks round and impish. “Thank you,” you tell him, all serious-like, and you have to actively suppress the squeal that threatens to break free from you. He glances to the Mandalorian with such a _look_ in those big eyes; its hard to make out, but you think its something close to pride or satisfaction, maybe: _Look dad, I shared my toy_.

Kriff, this kid is _cute_. Like, _dangerously_ cute.

You both take each other in like this; your micro expressions, his pruned little forehead, your fleshy form, all soft lines and angles. You’re sure you look just as strange to him and he does to you, especially given the only other lifeform on board he has as reference is coated from head to toe in metal. The child’s gaze snags on a lock of your hair, little teeth peeking through his mouth, eyes glued to it like a metronome as it dangles. You give your head a little shake, strands waving, and he giggles. You skip the ball over the hills of your knuckles, dazzling him momentarily.

“Does he have a name?” You ask, his eyes like black saucers peering curiously at you, and you give him back his toy— an offer he eagerly accepts.

“No.”

“So what do you call him then?”

“Just ‘kid’.”

A beat. “... Do _you_ have a name?”

“Mando.”

“Just ‘Mando’?”

“This is the way.”

You nod, worrying your cheek absentmindedly as you stare out the transparisteel. _This is the way_. You’re not entirely sure what the phrase meant, but you know respect when you hear it— how reverent it sits on his vocal chords— and by the manner of which the man, this _Mando_ , spoke, you can tell there’s more to those words than you know.

And you can appreciate his desire for anonymity; it doesn’t bother you much—you figure you won't be around long enough for it to matter anyways. You don’t know a lot about the Mandalorian people, but you have heard rumors. Everyone had. That’s all they were anymore: rumors and stories. Legends. Just seeing one was rare, and talking to one even rarer. But flying with one and his adorable, green baby? It was… well, certainly unique to say the least.

You share more dulled quiet. And although the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable now—you’re settling in to it— it’s not exactly desirable either, but it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t last.

Mando clears his throat, breaking the white noise that’s blanketed the three of them. He doesn’t turn his helmet. He keeps his focus straight ahead. You watch his reflection in the ship’s window and you can’t know for certain, but you think you feel your eyes brush against his, if only for a moment. A unintelligible noise filters through his modulator.

“Do you?”

You grin, a slow smile tugging at your lips.

“Last I checked.”

It’s the first smile he draws from you. The first of many.

* * *

Despite Mando’s warnings and better judgement, sleeping is _exactly_ what you end up doing. You pass out, _hard_ , stirring only once when an errant beep sounds through the cockpit. You’d fallen asleep right there in the chair, chin tucked into your chest, hair fanned across your cheek, arms wrapped around your waist in a measly attempt to trap your body heat to you. You’ve woken to find the cockpit empty— the ship must be on autopilot, you think— and by the illuminating glow of hyperspace, you spot his medkit, sitting open on the seat across from you and in it, nestled among old wrappings and gauze, a single patch of bacta.

* * *

* * *

That smile.

Din remembers this moment, later, holding it like a photo in a locket. Private. Secret. He keeps you there, gold plated on a chain, to loop around his memory.

Encircling him. Strangling him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gaius-frakking-baltar.tumblr.com :)


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